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The nearby traffic light showcases the disappointment flashing on her expression. “And it was before?”
“That was different,” I reason.
“You were just using me.”
My stride falters. “Don’t phrase it like that.”
“How would you prefer I twist your logic?”
“We can discuss this later. You’re drunk.” And I’m in a sudden hurry to get home.
“So?”
“I’m not going to give you a reason to hate me.”
“I could never hate you.”
“You say that now, but come morning and the return of your sobriety? Totally different story.”
“But I’m horny.” The petulant whine isn’t aiding her case.
“That’s just the liquor slurring your good sense. Get some sleep and you’ll be thinking much clearer about who you want to scratch that itch.”
“The answer will be the same,” she whispers.
Ignoring that comment hurts me more than I can properly describe. The painful clench in my gut does a damn decent job, though. It’s worse than indigestion and food poisoning combined.
“This way.” My voice is gruff even to my own ears.
But I don’t hesitate to steer her around the building. The metal steps straight ahead glint under the streetlamp. Just the climb remains.
Grace slams to an abrupt halt. “You live above the bar?”
“It’s very convenient.” I get us back in motion without much resistance.
She slaps a sluggish palm on my chest. “No shit. I’m super jealous of your commute.”
Which involves a moderate set of stairs. Our pace is steady, but careful. Grace doesn’t trip once during the ascend. We share a mutual sigh of relief upon reaching the landing.
I slide the key into the deadbolt and usher us inside. “Welcome to the bachelor pad.”
Grace crosses the threshold to enter the dark space. “Seems cozy.”
“Let me flip a switch.”
My meaning registers very differently for her. Once the door slams shut, she lunges for me. Grace suddenly has a dozen limps, all determined to haul me into a passionate embrace. That singular goal has me suctioned to her until there’s no escape. I’d surrender if the odds were even slightly better that she’d remember this in the morning.
“Grace,” I wheeze while managing to unravel myself. “Think about what you’re doing.”
She claws at my shirt. “That’s easy. You’re all I think about.”
“Let’s pump the brakes,” I urge.
Her grip on me loosens enough to provide wiggle room. My fingers blindly search for the table lamp. It takes several seconds for my eyes to adjust. Grace is still struggling based on the way she’s shielding her face.
“You should go to bed.” I shuffle sideways to point her in the right direction.
“And you should kiss me,” she breathes against my jaw.
